


Wiping Them Away (but I'll Pretend I Don't See)

by isuilde



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrepentant Fluff, mention of parental death, saruhiko isn't a crybaby really misaki just catches him at the worst times, this could have also been one of those five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 04:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4550340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rare times Misaki's fingers catch Saruhiko's tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wiping Them Away (but I'll Pretend I Don't See)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written for [brynne-lagaao](http://brynne-lagaao.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr, who wanted something with Misaki wiping away Saruhiko's tears and a bit of R18. I'm sorry it took a bit longer than I thought. I tried my best with the porn, I'm still a beginner at it but I hope you'd like it and the whole fic! 
> 
> A few things before we started:  
> 1\. Each part of this fic takes place somewhere in different installments of [K], as written in numbers before each part. I hope it's not confusing.  
> 2\. Return of Kings haven't aired yet but GoRA did tweet stuff about Saruhiko and Misaki's relationship is going to change so I decided to play a bit with that.  
> 3\. I'm sorry in advance about the porn ;____; I think I spent the longest with it orz. I'll do better next time.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. :3

  1. **Lost Small World**



Their road home is silent.

Misaki isn’t sure what to make of that—Saruhiko naturally doesn’t chatter, it’s always Misaki who chimes and pipes in and baits him whenever they’re together, stringing responses from Saruhiko with the silliest words possible. He doesn’t mind it, sometimes even finding a challenge in making Saruhiko throw him the oddest, most exasperated look, but with a hint of indulging smile barely tugging the corners of his lips.

He wonders he should actually say something, now. Anything.

Saruhiko hasn’t said a thing since they left the hospital—hasn’t said anything else since his fury explodes in the face of his father’s corpse. Doesn’t look like he’s thinking about anything, either; simply stares ahead down their road home with his perpetual  _I-hate-the-whole-world_ look, occasionally clicking his tongue when someone else accidentally bumps into him. Misaki isn’t sure if that’s the remnants of his earlier anger in the hospital, or if that’s just Saruhiko being Saruhiko, which is pretty much normal.

One of the streetlights above them blinks alarmingly when they finally duck into the alleyway that would take them down the street towards their shared apartment. Towards home, Misaki thinks, and remembers how far he’s gone since he’s met Saruhiko for the first time. Drawing courage from that, he takes a deep breath and says, “Saru.”

Saruhiko doesn’t even glance at him. “What.”

The word rings flat in Misaki’s ears, cold and detached, and Misaki feels something in him sinks.

“Uh.” The sole of his shoes catches on the sidewalk. “Nothing.”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue, and Misaki hears an annoyed hiss of air through his teeth. “If you have something to say, say it already.”

“I don’t—“ Misaki hesitates, lets the silence stretch for another few seconds. He unclenches his fists; he doesn’t even remember when he’d had them drawn into fists, but the tension between them since they walked out of the hospital had been so palpable, someone could probably cut it with a knife. He thinks, some more, tries to find the right words, and isn’t surprised when he can’t. So he ducks his head instead, traces the edge of the sidewalk with his eyes, and mutters, “I don’t know what to say.”

Saruhiko has the gall to snort, but it sounds  _wrong_ . Misaki isn’t sure why. “Don’t hurt yourself thinking.”

“Fuck you,” the counter doesn’t carry his usual weight of insult—this one is more absent, a force of habit. “Just for that, I’m going to put extra vegetables in your dinner tonight.”

Normally, Saruhiko would make a face. Normally, Saruhiko would click his tongue and insult Misaki or something. Now, Saruhiko doesn’t answer, simply shoving his hands into his pockets and mutters, “Whatever.”

Misaki has nothing for that.

So the silence stretches, stretches far until they finally reaches the small compound that is their cheap apartment (nothing like his own house, nothing compared to Saruhiko’s family house). Misaki fumbles with the keys once-twice-thrice before manages to slot it into the keyhole. Theirs is familiar clack of the lock being opened, and Misaki turns, head angling just so that he could see Saruhiko behind him—

Saruhiko is looking up at the night sky, neck bared as he tilts his head up; his gaze fixed at something beyond the clouds.

Misaki counts three halting heartbeats, and then calls, “Saruhiko?”

The name sounds too soft, too careful—and it’s weird because it’s not how Misaki ever calls Saruhiko before.The syllables hang in the air, spirited away by the night breeze as if they weren’t spoken at all. Misaki swallows, and tries again, voice stronger this time. “Oi, Saru.”

“I think,” Saruhiko says, quiet, and the dim streetlight washes his face in pale yellow, casting shadows on the lines of his jaws. “I saw the blip.”

Misaki follows Saruhiko’s gaze up in one soft exhale, finds the the clouds hanging lightly onto the pitch black night sky. Beyond them are the hazy, pale twinkle of stars, their lights swallowed by the bright city lights down here, and the crescent moon is half-hidden behind a car-shaped cloud. He squints, tries to find the blinking light that should be the first sign of the blip, but finds nothing.

_Didn’t you probably just see some other planes_ , he’s about to say, but then Saruhiko takes a sharp breath, and Misaki doesn’t. Instead he steps forward, arm reaching out until his fingers find Saruhiko’s elbows—all jagged-edes and wiry limbs, the gangly and awkward body of a teenager—and tugs.

Saruhiko doesn’t budge. Doesn’t take his eyes away from the sky. But he doesn’t push Misaki’s hand away, either, so Misaki waits. He’s never been good in guessing how others feel—he gets lucky and guesses right sometimes, but that’s one out of fifty, and with Saruhiko’s whole body strung taut with tension, with—he doesn’t even fucking know, anger? Grief? Hatred? Shock?—he doesn’t think he should guess, for now.

Then, like a puppet that’s suddenly cut from its strings, Saruhiko jerks, like he only realizes where he is and what he’s doing. He turns his gaze back down, stares at Misaki’s fingers on his elbows, and follows the arm with his eyes until they settle back into Misaki’s own, and Misaki gives him a sheepish grin.

“Come on,” Misaki grouches, and he’s glad his voice sounds more normal. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

And just like that, he decides to forget the silence. Decides to just fall back into his usual chatter, despite Saruhiko probably finding it annoying, because Misaki doesn’t know how else he would deal with this Saruhiko—this too quiet, too tense, too unpredictable Saruhiko who’s only lost a father he hated more than anyone else in this world.

They get inside—Misaki grumbling about how having a motorcycle would make everything so much easier, even if he has to learn to drive and then probably get a license, but  _it would be so cool, don’t you think Saruhiko?_ He lets Saruhiko drops on the floor, doesn’t look at him as he bustles about in the kitchen, complaining about how fast he’s getting hungry nowadays, scowling at the content of their fridge as he takes out the meager ingredients for kare, threatens Saruhiko not to forget grocery shopping tomorrow because he’d be out for part-time job until seven. He chops and makes pans sizzle, makes louder noises in the kitchen, turns on the water and fills up all their water bottles, distracting himself from how Saruhiko still hasn’t said a word.

Then, as he brings steaming plates of curry rice to their table, he sees Saruhiko with his head hung, bangs covering the better half of his face, and two consecutive water drops that falls to the floor.

Fuck, Misaki thinks, and realizes that no matter how much Saruhiko hates his dad, that weird guy was still his dad.

He doesn’t pause—simply swings by the table to drop the two steaming plates on the table and strides back evenly towards the kitchen. He snags one of the washcloth by the sink, runs the water until it’s completely soaked, then wrings it before turning back towards Saruhiko.

He stops half a step away from where Saruhiko sits, and shoves the washcloth against Saruhiko’s face.

Saruhiko yelps in surprise, his words a garbled string of syllables that doesn’t make any sense because Misaki is rubbing the washcloth on his face. Misaki grins, doesn’t even try to make his movement gentle, and says, “The fuck have you been doing today, have you seen your face?”

“Misaki!” his name comes out muffled, in a bewildered tone, and Misaki wants to laugh a little. “What the fuck—“

“You’re not having dinner before you wash your hands and face, dumbass.”

“Get off—what are you, a nanny?!”

Saruhiko grabs his hand and pushes him away, face indignant, and Misaki lets out a laugh that might have sounded softer than his usual teasing barks. Saruhiko flips him the finger, and he flips him right back, and for the moment, they both return to what feels like normalcy.

“Go wash your face,” Misaki orders, both hands on his hips, and pretends not to see the tears.

Saruhiko skulks towards the sink, but when he comes back there’s asmall smile tugging on his lips, and Misaki thinks that’s enough.

** \-----o0o----- **

  1. **Side Red**



Saruhiko stares at Anna. Anna stares at him right back.

On her hands, the tray of cookies is still scorching hot, obviously having just come out of the oven. All of those cookies are red, some simply shaped like stars and hearts and rectangles, some in more elaborate shapes like cats and cars and bears, and some other don’t even look like anything.

By his side, Misaki perks up. “Oh! Cookies!”

Behind Anna, Totsuka’s head pokes out from the kitchen, eyes brightening when he sees them. “Welcome back, Fushimi, Yata!”

“Osu, Totsuka-san!’ Misaki grins. “Are you baking?”

Saruhiko could hear a faint scream coming from the kitchen, followed with clatters and bangs things coming down, and Kusanagi bellowing angrily at Dewa. Totsuka being Totsuka, though, just laughs, and lightly says, “More accurately, everyone is baking. Come on, you both, come over here and help out!”

“What,” Saruhiko says flatly.

Anna raises the tray on her hands. “Saruhiko, try one.”

He looks back down on the tray, then on Anna. “No.”

“They’re good,” Anna says, and Saruhiko sighs, takes one heart-shaped cookie and breaks them in halves, giving the other half to Misaki, who instantly looks like Christmas has come early, almost too-readily thanking Anna and praising her baking prowess. Idiot.

The cookie is too sweet.

And it’s, of course, a trap, because eating a cookie means they have to help out with the ridiculous HOMRA Baking Night event Totsuka has come up with. Saruhiko stands in the middle of the absolute wreck that is the kitchen under Kusanagi’s stressed-out warning for everyone to not set anything on fire, stares at Totsuka and Misaki commandeering the mixer, at Fujishima and Kamamoto decorating the cookies, at Anna climbing onto stools and on top of the counters to grab down ingredients.

He spares a look at Mikoto, the Red King, who is sitting by the oven and looking extremely bored.

“King,” Totsuka chimes cheerfully, “Tone down the fire, we need a steady four-hundred-and-ten degrees!”

Mikoto grunts, because apparently he has been relegated to use his flames to heat the oven, and Saruhiko is just about to be done with everything. Except then Totsuka swings by him and hands him a thick cloth, and tells him, “Fushimi, take out the trays in the oven, okay? I’d give you mittens, but Dewa managed to burn them when we started. Be careful, it’s hot.”

Can’t even get kitchen safety properly around here, Saruhiko snits mentally, but he turns to the oven anyway. He doesn’t look at Mikoto when he gingerly opens it, fingers half-shaking in tension because there is a reason why he doesn’t belong in the kitchen. He narrows his eyes, glances at Mikoto when the Red King spares him a look, but doesn’t acknowledge it. He positions the cloth in his hand instead, carefully grabbing one of the trays and pulling it out.

The scent of freshly baked cookies assault his nostrils, and Saruhiko mentally kicks himself when his stomach growls. He thinks he hears Mikoto grunts a laugh, but Saruhiko isn’t nearly so suicidal to glare at the Red King, so he turns away instead, taking careful steps towards the counter to lie the the tray down—

And the cloth slips from his hand.

“Fuck!” The tray burns against his palm, a shock of heat he isn’t prepared for, and he lets go of it reflexively. It clatters on the counter, but the damage is done. Saruhiko hisses, low, his open palm throbs with the burn, stinging enough to bring tears in his eyes.

Deft fingers touches the corner of his eyes in a swiping motion, coming away half-wet, and Saruhiko blinks before jerking back. “What—“

It’s Misaki—of course it’s Misaki—curiously looking at him as he leans against the kitchen counter, and slowly, maddeningly, he breaks into the shittiest grin Saruhiko has ever seen.

“Seriously, Saru?” the laughter is teasing, mocking, as it rings in the kitchen, and Misaki doubles over with the force of it. “You cried just because of a burn, really? What a crybaby.”

Saruhiko scowls at him and crosses his arms. “At least I didn’t cry when a girl gets up and personal with me.”

“I did not!” It’s funny how easy it is to rile Misaki up, to drag him from laughter to anger in one simple sentence. Misaki huffs, turns away and flips him the finger. “Fuck you too, stupid monkey.”

_The idiot one is Misaki_ , Saruhiko thinks, as he watches Misaki returns to his mixing station and laughs at one of Totsuka’s jokes, slapping Bandou’s hand when he tries to taste the dough.

** \-----o0o----- **

  1. **Days of Blue**



Going to work is perhaps a big mistake.

The blue uniform feels suffocating even in the too cold, air-conditioned room of their office. His limbs feel like lead, like they’re moving too slowly, and his head feels too heavy to deal with most of the paperwork stacked on top of his work station. The other Blues’ chatterings that are usually just white background noises to him becomes increasingly annoying and adding to his headache, today.

Saruhiko loosens his shirt’s topmost button—it’s hard to breathe. He ducks his head down low, tries to concentrate on the paperwork he’s handling: a report on the Strain attack the day before yesterday, one that had injured both Benzai and Hidaka, which ability was suspected to be telekinesis. He needs to finish this before lunch, or else Awashima would give him hell.

He swallows a frustrated groan, realizing that he’s been staring at the same paper for the last half an hour without much progress, and grabs the water bottle on the edge of his work station with shaking fingers. Maybe if he drinks enough, his fever would come down, and his headache would dissipate enough to finish the paperwork. He could fetch an energy drink from the vending machine later, he just needs to make it to lunch break—

“Fushimi,” Awashima’s voice comes, and Saruhiko curses mentally.”I need form R-55 that Domyouji filled in yesterday.”

Saruhiko vaguely waves at the ‘finished’ pile of paper. “It’s somewhere in there.”

He could feel Awashima’s disapproving frown at his work ethic even without having to turn around. Clicking his tongue, Saruhiko mumbles a lazy “fine, fine,” and reaches out to the ‘finished’ pile, slowly going through it to find the form Awashima wants. Troublesome, he thinks, and fights the pounding on the back of his skull as he concentrates.

It takes longer than he likes—he’s moving too slowly, and drawing himself to his feet requires a tremendous energy. Even more so to keep himself from swaying on his feet as he walks towards Awashima’s work station, dropping the paper on her desk. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Awashima looks up, sharp eyes taking Saruhiko’s figure in a once-over, and the mighty frown is back. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Saruhiko lies through his teeth. His palms are clammy, and the headache is twice stronger once he got to his feet. Awashima is, of course, not fooled, because the woman is scary and Saruhiko suspects she knows everything that goes under Scepter 4 roof even before anybody tells her. “Just—feeling under the weather.”

Awashima scrutinizes him closely once again, and Saruhiko makes himself stand straighter, puts the last energy he has to keep himself from keeling over. Then she nods, even though she doesn’t look satisfied. “Don’t push yourself too hard. If you don’t think you could take it, go back to the dorm.”

Saruhiko snorts. “No need.”

It turns out that yes, he does need bedrest in his room. It takes him an embarrassingly ten minutes after returning to his work station before the dizzy spells start, and Saruhiko thinks he sees three Munakatas striding into their office before he lets his head thud down onto the cool surface of his table, breathing hard.

Awashima kicks him out of the office under Munakata’s command, and Benzai drags him back to the dorm. He makes it to his bed with a too-slow, too heavy steps that leave his limbs feel like molasses, and Saruhiko  _just hates being sick_ . He grabs a bottle of water and gets under the blanket, tells himself that he’s been through colds and fever all by himself numerous times since he was a kid, and this is no big deal.

Except then he lies facing the ceilings, trying to breathe through clogged nose and throat, and remembers the taste of Misaki’s porridge.

And it’s dumb, because everything he hasn’t thought, everything he’s told himself not to think ever since the day he decided to leave HOMRA, to be a traitor, now comes flooding back with a vengeance. He misses Misaki, misses him so fiercely it feels like there’s a constant ache somewhere under his ribs that throbs in time with his heartbeat. Which is stupid, he thinks in disdain, because he wants Misaki to hate him now, and they’re supposed to hate each other, and he does enjoy the thrill that goes through him whenever Misaki turns a hateful glare his way but—

But he misses Misaki’s warmth, too. Misses the way Misaki’s finger brush back his bangs, away from the dampened cloth over his forehead. Misses the taste of of Misaki’s porridge, sometimes too heavily spiced and sometimes doesn’t taste like anything at all. Misses a presence keeping vigil by his bedside, someone who would always comes when he calls for him, no matter how far he is.

Except that Misaki isn’t here, anymore. Except Misaki can’t hear him calling—not since HOMRA takes away their small world.

He closes his eyes and pretends that it’s sweat falling from the corner of his eye and rolling down his cheek.

He falls asleep to a memory: once, when his fever is so high that he’s delirious with it, the feel of Misaki’s fingers, cool against his cheek, fingertips skittering lightly as he wipes away Saruhiko’s tears and sweat.

** \-----o0o----- **

  1. **Return of Kings**



Misaki wakes up to steady beeping noises, the sterile scent of a hospital, an oxygen mask over his lower face, something pressed against his forehead, and the feeling of something wet falling against his eyelids.

It confuses him for a second, mostly because the last thing he remembers is chasing a wild Strain all over Shizume City because the Blues had requested Anna’s help (and, by extension, of course HOMRA’s), and he’d been fighting back-to-back with Saruhiko when the Strain made something explode, and from there it’s basically just scorching heat, violent blast and excruciating pain.

And then blissful darkness.

That explains the hospital, Misaki thinks dumbly, but as he slowly blinks up and tries to focus his vision, he registers someone hovering above him—not quite hovering, he supposes, as whoever it is has his forehead leaning against Misaki’s own, pressing lightly, dark bangs falling down almost like a curtain over Misaki’s jaw. Misaki breathes carefully, revels in the hazy, floaty feeling in his head that he’s sure is morphine’s effects or something like that, before another drop of something wet falls against his cheek, and he blinks.

The glasses isn’t there, and Misaki wants to laugh at himself because even without them he should’ve been able to recognize who it is. Another drop, this time on his left cheek, rolling down onto his ear, and Misaki raises one hand to pull down the oxygen mask.

“Stupid monkey.”

Saruhiko doesn’t move. Doesn’t open his eyes, even as droplets of tears fall onto Misaki’s face. And Misaki grins, slides his hand up and against Saruhiko’s jaw, weak fingers brushing dark strands back, his thumb finding the corner of Saruhiko’s eye.

“Why are you always such a crybaby,” he croaks, each syllable a struggle to get through. Saruhiko’s eyebrows knit, like he’s suppressing a wave of anger, of  _emotions_ Misaki can’t possibly understand. He traces the tears along Saruhiko’s cheekbone, almost in fascination. “It’d take more than that to kill me, dumbass.”

“You,” Saruhiko grits out, the word coming out in a frustrated whisper. “Are such a shit.”

“I was trying to protect your back—“ Misaki protests, but the last word comes out with a cough, his throat as parched as a desert. He gasps for a breath—fuck, his ribs—and makes a face, gritting his teeth and tells himself to breathe through because he’s been worse, he’s the ace of HOMRA, goddammit. “You never appreciate any fucking thing, shitty Monkey.”

He hears Saruhiko’s sharp intake of breath, watches Saruhiko’s mouth open and tremble before it close, then the words comes out through gritted teeth. “You fucked up my plan, is what you did.”

Misaki snorts, even if it comes out almost too weakly. “What is exactly your plan, anyway? Dying on my watch?”

He doesn’t get a response for that. Saruhiko’s forehead slides sideways, and Misaki feels Saruhiko’s weight upon him now, solid but not suffocating, feels Saruhiko’s head bump against his shoulder, feels the way Saruhiko shakes against him.

“Oi,” Misaki says hoarsely. “Don’t you fucking cry on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,”Saruhiko snits back, and breaks down in silent sobs and shudders five seconds later.

**\-----o0o-----**

  1. **The Future, Decided**



It’s hard to discern, and Misaki thinks it’s sweat at first, dripping down as Saruhiko moves deliciously in him. He answers with a buck of his hips, chasing the friction, the feeling of being full, of having Saruhiko in him, and hisses when Saruhiko’s fingers dig into the hollow of his hips and hold him down, changing the angle and thrusts back.

“Hnngg—nggghh—“ Misaki whines, fingers scrabbling at Saruhiko’s arms and then slipping right down by the sweat. It’s hot, it burns—each touch, each breath, each move, and Misaki thinks he won’t be able to breathe if Saruhiko doesn’t move in earnest soon. “Saru—ah! Sa—“

He hears Saruhiko swear, the syllable long drawn and rings in Misaki’s ear, and he laughs breathlessly, clenches up again around Saruhiko. The grip on his hips tighten; it would probably leave bruises in the morning, stark dark against Misaki’s white briefs, and the thought sends electric shudder all through his body.

Saruhiko leans forward, lips finding Misaki’s own, all force and impatient teeth. There it is again, Misaki thinks, as he feels another droplet falls against his cheek, and he groans because goddamn fuck if it isn’t hot—

Except then Saruhiko makes a broken noise as he shifts, and the dim streetlight that filters throught their curtains fall across them in just the right angle, and he sees Saruhiko’s eyes, clear as the night sky, glistening wet.

It brings his brain to a halt, a sharp pause in the midst of pleasure, and Misaki chokes out, “what the fuck, Saru, why are you—“

“Shut up,” Saruhiko tells him, his voice shaky, and he leans down and kisses away Misaki’s beginning of laughter. It slips out anyway, a vibration in Misaki’s chest that bubbles up his throat, and Misaki’s face breaks into a grin, laughter spilling out in the scant space where they share breath, as he reaches up to wipe away the tears pooling in the corner of Saruhiko’s eyes.

Saruhiko scowls at him, lips turning down into a frown. “Stop it.”

“But you’re—“ Misaki gasps, and the next word dissolves into nothingness as Saruhiko moves, grinding down deep, and Misaki’s brain loses whatever it is he’s about to say, his world narrowing down to delicious heat and  _full, good, yes, there, yesyesyesyesfuck, Saruhiko—_

He feels Saruhiko’s lips under his jaw, teeth light and teasing; Saruhiko’s body a sensual slide over his own, undulating to a rhythm only they know. Fingers dance across his ribs, fleeting touch over a nipple that draws a sharp moan from him, except Saruhiko’s other thumb finds the corner of his lips and slips between his teeth, and Misaki latches onto it like an anchor, sucking, biting, whining as it presses against his own tongue. It’s hot, too hot, and he struggles to gasp like he can’t find enough air, between him and Saruhiko.

“Saru—fuck—“

The bastard has the gall to laugh, even as he snaps his hips over and over, one hand skittering down Misaki’s hips to find his cock, hard and leaking, and Misaki howls, body going rigid as Saruhiko’s thumb swipes over the head. It’s gone in a breath, drawing out another whine from Misaki, and Saruhiko chuckles, his hair tousled and his smirk dangerous, and Misaki swallows.

“Too early to beg, don’t you think,” he drawls, one hand going up and finds the corner of Misaki’s eye, coming away wet. “Mi-sa-kiiiii—“

_Fuck this_ , Misaki thinks, as he throws his arms around Saruhiko’s neck, pulling himself up into Saruhiko’s lap.

It’s time to ride out their pleasure.

** \-----o0o----- **


End file.
